


Jack Zimmmermann vs. the English Language

by sylviarachel



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bilingual, CW: memories of overdose, Canon-Typical Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking Games, French, M/M, Nightmares, Vignettes, actual endnotes, probably not very good french
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: Or, 5 times Jack had trouble with English (or words in general) + 1 time Bitty did





	Jack Zimmmermann vs. the English Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts), [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



> I am super unconvinced about this fic, but ... here goes!

  1. **It’s Not Rocket Science, Smartie-Pants 1 [Fall 2011]**



“OK,” says Shitty. He tilts his can of PBR all the way vertical to suck out the last dregs, then tosses the empty over his shoulder. “Umm … worst Halloween candy. Johnson, GO.”

“Bazooka gum,” says Johnson, whose turn it is to answer first in this weird game they’re apparently playing. “Hard as a rock and loses its flavour after like five seconds.”

“And sticks to your braces,” says Cohen mournfully.

“And rots your teeth,” says Jack, trying to contribute to the conversation. They all look at him; he hunches a little, but still says, “What? It does!”

“Marshy,” says Shitty. “You’re next.”

“Uh,” says Marsh. He’s on about PBR number 8 and is, frankly, pretty schwasted. “Uh … those lil boxes of raisins.”

This seems pretty uncontroversial to Jack, but apparently not: “Foul! That’s not even a candy!” yells Shitty, and Berger adds, “Shits is right, bro. That’s a penalty.”

Bergy and Shitty high-five, and Shitty, who’s also well on the way to pretty schwasted, crows, “Hey, _you_ can give _me_ a back massage for a change, Marshy!”

Marsh rolls his eyes, but shifts over and starts massaging Shitty’s shoulders. “Don’t think this changes anything about my dibs, lil frog,” he says.

Shitty ignores this and makes a noise that makes Jack want to curl up and hide. But Maman said he’d get more out of his college experience if he participated in things other than hockey and classes, and this is, like, team bonding, so he doesn’t get up and retreat to his dorm though he kind of wants to.

It’s Cohen’s turn next, and he votes for “those gross molasses taffy things that stick to every fucking thing,” which earns him loud general agreement and some not-very-accurate high-fives. Then Lowry suggests Necco wafers, and everyone shudders.

“Bergy,” says Shitty. “How ’bout you?”

Berger takes a long swig of his beer, looking thoughtful. Finally he says, “Smarties. Cheap as fuck, taste like chalk. It’s, like, the candy choice that says ‘I’m a cheap bastard who doesn’t give a fuck’.”

And Jack’s been trying to fit in, he really has, but when everyone nods and makes disgusted faces, he can’t help saying, “What are you talking about? Smarties are great!” He falters, though, when once again every person in the circle is looking at him like he’s some kind of epic weirdo. “I mean. Like. Chocolate?”

He turns to Shitty, dares to bump their shoulders together like Shitty’s always doing. “Back me up here, Shits, I saw you eating M&Ms yesterday, they’re not that different.”

But now even _Shitty_ is giving him that _what the fuck is wrong with this guy_ look, and Jack just …

« Never mind », he mutters, slumping back against the front of the chesterfield. « Not important. » He doesn’t even realize until later that he said it in French.

When it’s his turn, he ventures, “Candy corn,” because he’s always thought candy corn was just … _wrong_ , and is relieved when at least half the group agrees with him.

* * *

 

  1. **Milk It for All It’s Worth 2 [Fall 2012]**



“Fuckin’ milk bag!” Ransom yells as he clambers over the boards. He charges towards the huge Quinnipiac d-man who just checked Shitty into the boards, still yelling: “’m gonna pour you out like—”

Jack, breathing hard after a long PK shift, snorts a laugh.

“The fuck?” mutters Cohen. “Milk bag? Like … on a cow?”

From Jack’s other side, Bergy says, “I mean I guess?”

“No,” says Jack, “it’s just a bag of milk. Like, you buy four litres of milk and it comes in—”

But he can tell he lost them at _litres_ , and it’s confirmed when Cohen interrupts him to say, “Wait, is this another one of those fucked-up Canadian things?”

Jack is going to argue that _fucked-up_ , he really is, but then Coach is calling his line, _again_ , and he’s vaulting over the boards with Marsh and Einhardt, and by the time their shift is finished he’s forgotten about it.

The next time Ransom calls someone a _fuckin’ milk bag_ , it’s during a Haus kegster, and the someone in question is a particularly pushy lax bro who will. not. stop. hitting on Lardo. Now, Lardo can take care of herself – it’s one of the things Jack likes most about her, along with her calm demeanour and her ability to just be comfortably quiet – and she generally does not appreciate guys swooping in and white-knighting when she is handling the situation just fine by herself, thankyouverymuch. Eventually, though, enough gets to be enough, and Jack and Ransom and Shitty decide, without really discussing it out loud, that Lax Douchebro has worn out his welcome and needs to be somewhere else, like, now.

“Hey, Lards,” says Ransom, very politely even though he’s had like six beers. “You done with this dude?”

Lardo considers Lax Douchebro, then considers Ransom and Jack. “Yep,” she says, with just the faintest hint of her patented Evil Grin lurking in her eyes. “He’s all yours, boys.”

“S’wawesome,” Ransom and Shitty say in somewhat eerie unison. Jack doesn’t say anything; he just takes a firm hold of Lax Douchebro, one hand on his right shoulder, the other on his left elbow, and, with Ransom on one side and Shitty on the other, escorts him through the press of people to the front porch of the Haus.

Lax Douche isn’t happy about the situation, but he’s also too schwasted to fight back effectively, especially not against three six-foot-ish hockey players, only two of whom are anywhere near as drunk as him.

“And stay out, ya fuckin’ milk bag,” Ransom says, when Jack has deposited Lax Douche on the sidewalk in front of the Haus.

For some reason it seems hilarious this time—maybe it’s the look of blank bewilderment on the lax bro’s stupid face—and Jack lets himself get pulled into a laughing bro-pile with Ransom and Shitty.

“Fuckin’ Canadians, man,” Shitty says, standing on tiptoe to sling his arms around Jack’s and Ransom’s shoulders. “Fuckin’ Canadian beauts.”

Then, like some weird hockey iteration of the Trois Mousquetaires, they all yell, “Fffffuck the LAX bros!” and troop back into the Haus, Ransom and Shitty to return to the beer pong table and Jack to retreat to his room.

It’s stupid and ridiculous and makes no sense, but Jack feels like maybe, possibly, he may have found his people.

* * *

 

  1. **Dream a Little Dream of Me 3 [Fall 2013–Summer 2014]**



Jack has always dreamed mostly in French, except when he dreamed about Kenny. In the two years after the 2009 draft, living in Montréal with his parents like he hadn’t since he was fifteen, he learned to dread the English dreams—the Kenny dreams. He understands now that that whole shit-show was at least as much his own fault as Kenny’s: Kenny knew he took pills, but not what for; Kenny knew he drank, but not how much; Kenny knew he got anxious, but not that he had a diagnosed anxiety disorder—and the person who could’ve set him straight (haha) on all of those things was Jack. Who didn’t.

Jack’s sure he had a reason for keeping that secret from Kenny, but he no longer remembers what it was. What he does remember (can’t forget) is Kenny’s face grinning above his brand-new Aces jersey on Draft day, and Kenny’s face pale and terrified at the edge of his peripheral vision in a Montreal hospital room, and all the times Papa called Kenny _mon fils_ and looked at him with pride, and, now, the time Kenny—

 _Kent_ , he says to himself. _Y faut l’appeler Kent. Kenny pis Zimms, c’est une toute autre vie._

—the time _Kent_ came to Samwell just to rub Jack’s nose in the Aces’ Stanley Cup win (according to Jack) or share the experience with him like they’d always wanted (according to Kent) and Jack …

Well. Jack knows what he did, and he knows what Kent did, and thanks to years of therapy he’s starting to see things differently than he did back then—but still, dreams with Kent Parson in them only ever end one way these days, and it’s not something anyone would look forward to.

On the other hand, because he’s now living almost entirely in English, he’s started sometimes having other kinds of dreams in English, too. The weird, random ones that he only half remembers in the morning, sometimes; often the anxiety ones from which he wakes firmly convinced that he’s missed practice, missed an academic deadline, slept through a test, forgotten to turn in a term paper. The euphoric ones where he’s flying, his fingertips skimming the treetops around the Pond, and the terrifying ones in which something huge is chasing him and he can’t see, can’t scream, can’t breathe—those have no language at all, they never did.

The playoff game against Yale adds a new item to Jack’s repertoire of English Dreams to Dread. In this one, Bittle is hip-checked, flies into the air, hits the boards and then the ice—his helmet goes bouncing away—and when Jack looks away from the helmet and back to his liney, he sees him not blinking and going green in the face and eventually skating shakily off the ice, but lying there still, still, still, while the ice around him fills up with red, red, red.

It’s the worst English dream he’s ever had, and that’s saying something.

* * *

 

  1. **Breaking Up Is Hard to Do (When You Didn’t Know You Were Dating) 4 [Fall/Winter 2014]**



“Jack, I need to say something,” says Camilla, almost as soon as they’ve sat down with their drinks.

“Okay,” says Jack, agreeably. He’s pretty crap at reading people, but even he can tell that Camilla’s had something on her mind today. Probably that frosh women’s doubles team who can’t get along either on or off the court – she was complaining about them last week. He isn’t sure he’ll have any helpful advice to offer (these two girls sound a lot like Dex and Nursey in some ways, but he suspects “Bittle threatened to revoke their pie privileges if they didn’t stop making Chowder sad” doesn’t qualify as helpful advice), but at least he can listen, one captain to another.

“So, the thing is,” Camilla starts, then sighs. She looks down at her mug of black coffee and starts again: “Look, the thing is, we’re both so busy—you guys are on the road all the time, and our competition season is going to be ramping up—and we both have so much responsibility—and this senior philosophy seminar Niloshi talked me into taking with her is kicking my ass—”

Jack nods, understanding, then realizes Camilla can’t see him nod, because for some reason she won’t look at him this morning, and says, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

She looks up, then, with what even Jack can tell is relief on her face. “Oh, I’m so glad you understand. So, yeah, I just think, we’re both so busy, we should just focus on what we’re doing.”

Jack nods again. “Makes sense,” he agrees. “Okay, good talk.”

Camilla laughs, and they talk about hockey and tennis while they finish their drinks, and after that morning they don’t really see much of each other. Which is fine with Jack, because, after all, he wasn’t lying when he said he had a lot going on: his course load is pretty challenging, and there’s hockey, and checking practice with Bittle, and pretty soon he’s going to have to be thinking seriously about his signing options …

He doesn’t think about it at all, in fact, until a reporter for the _Swallow_ starts asking him questions about Camilla, and then it seems easiest to just shrug and say, “Well, she’s right over there. You should ask her.”

* * *

 

  1. **The Naming of Tea Is a Difficult Matter 5 [Summer 2015]**



“Here’s your coffee, hon,” says the server, smiling. She sets down a steaming mug in front of Bitty, who reaches for it with one hand and starts pouring sugar into it from the glass dispenser on the table with the other.

Jack’s brain is busy trying to decide between practical horror at all those empty calories and visceral horror at imagining how Bitty’s coffee is going to taste and, okay, a pleasant daydream of chirping Bitty about his coffee preferences until he’s sputtering with indignation and then kissing him until they’re both a bit dizzy. He hears the server say something like “And tea for you, enjoy,” and absently thanks her, all without taking his eyes off Bitty’s hands (which have now finished adding half the sugar canister to his tea, and are stirring in an enormous amount of cream).

(And Jack should probably rein in the staring a bit, come to think. At least in public. Definitely.)

“Earth to Mr Zimmermann,” says Bitty, sounding amused.

Jack looks up at him; he’s grinning across the table, his _I’m about to chirp someone into the next century_ grin, and Jack understands why when the spoon Bitty was using to stir his coffee comes up to meet his mouth. In goes the spoon, down go the eyelids—

This is _not helping_. Jack looks down at the table in front of him, where the server put his tea.

Except …

“Bittle, what is this?”

“Um, tea?” says Bitty. “Which is what you ordered?”

Jack frowns at it. It’s a big, tall glass, dewy with condensation, filled with ice cubes and a clear light-brown liquid, and garnished with a slice of lemon. A bendy straw is sticking up out of the glass, next to the lemon.

“No,” he says. He leans down to sniff at it: hypothesis confirmed. “It’s _iced_ tea. I ordered _tea_. You know, it’s hot and comes in a mug?”

He gestures at Bitty’s coffee.

Bitty is very obviously trying not to laugh at him. “You’re in the South, sweetpea,” he says, over the rim of his mug. “If you want _hot_ tea, you gotta say so.”

Jack frowns – at the glass of iced tea in front of him, at Bitty, at Madison, Georgia, in general. “But,” he says. “But that’s … that’s like saying I have to tell people I play _ice_ hockey.”

Bitty puts his coffee down on the table and reaches across to pat Jack’s hand. “Bless your heart,” he says.

* * *

 

**+1. Take My Breath Away [2020]**

It was Bitty who said they should write their own vows.

Jack, once he got with the program, worried over his for weeks, ran them by Maman (after swearing her to secrecy on pain of dire retribution), and then practised them obsessively until he could recite every word from memory. Bitty, on the other hand, didn’t seem particularly worried—though maybe that was only because there were so many other things to worry about? Planning a wedding, it turns out, is unbelievably complicated, even if your fiancé is a wildly overpaid NHL player who can afford to hire you a professional wedding planner willing to sign an NDA—and it didn’t occur to Jack to say, at any point, _Hey, bud, how are you doing on those wedding vows?_ , because … well, why would it?

Neither of them has been anxious about _being married_ —as his parents and Shitty and Kent and Marty and Tater and George and Lardo have all told them in various ways at various times over the past couple of years, they’re basically married already. (Ransom added, mock-helpfully, that in Ontario they’d be legally common-law-married by now.) (Jack never pointed out that it’s easier to be approved as adoptive parents if you’re legally married, because the resulting storm of chirps and squeals and happy-crying is just not something he has the spoons to deal with at the moment. They’ll tell people about that when there’s something to tell.) But they’ve both had their moments of over-the-top panic about the _getting_ _married_ part. Bitty would get anxious about the cake and the food and the seating arrangements and the potential for drunken shenanigans on the part of his teenage cousins, who are legal or almost-legal in Nova Scotia. Jack got anxious about fucking up his vows or the choreography or his outfit and about someone getting held up at the border with something dubiously legal (even in Canada) in their luggage and about what kinds of pranks might result from getting pretty much the entire Falconers organization and twenty-odd current or former members of the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team together in the same place. (So far, none to speak of. But the night is still very, very young.)

Still, it’s been years since Jack found himself giving serious mind-space to the anxiety-voice that still periodically tells him he’s not good enough for Bitty, and he was pretty proud of the confidence and trust they’ve built between them.

Except…

Except, he’s just finished telling Bitty, in front of practically everyone they know, exactly how much he loves him and admires him, how Bitty makes anywhere they are feel like home and how they make each other better, and promising to love him and to treat him with both honesty and kindness and to be with him anywhere and everywhere forever, and Bitty is just … standing there.

Staring up at him with his dark eyes wide and rimmed with pink, and a panic-stricken look on his face.

Not saying anything at all.

Which (unless he’s asleep) is almost always a sign that something is amiss, but in this case, given that face and the current situation, is … pretty fucking terrifying, actually.

Jack’s still holding both Bitty’s hands, and he can feel them shaking. He feels like he should be _doing something_ , but somehow all he can think of to do, in front of _all these fucking people why did we invite so many people WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE HERE OSTIE DE CRISSE_ , is stare back at Bitty and keep holding on.

“Eric?” the officiant prompts him gently, her voice pitched too low for even Shitty or Lardo, who are standing closest, to hear.

Bitty blinks, and his chest heaves with a deep, gasping breath. “I,” he says, still looking right at Jack. “I had, um. I had a whole speech. And I learned it off by heart. And now it’s just … just _gone_.”

The magnitude of Jack’s relief is such that he’s a bit surprised he doesn’t just fall right over. This whole time, in the deep-down-dark of his brain where the bad things with claws and teeth lurk, ugly little voices have been whispering things like _He’s changed his mind, of course he has_ , and _How could you think someone like Eric Bittle would settle for someone as fucked-up as you?_ —and after all it’s just this.

(Another, more self-aware part of his mind notes, with dry irony, that if it were Jack himself who completely forgot his script on the most important day of his life so far, he’d be freaking the fuck out.)

“Did you forget to bring your index cards?” he says, just as quietly, a tiny, gentle, smiling chirp.

But Bitty’s face transforms. “Oh!” he says. “No, I didn’t!”

He extracts his right hand from Jack’s left and roots around in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, and after a moment, looking triumphant, comes out with a small stack of index cards. A wave of indulgent laughter flows over the groomspeople and the first few rows of their families and friends.

And then Bitty is speaking, and Jack can’t hear anything else.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” he says, looking straight at Jack again like he just needed the index cards in his hands to remember how this is supposed to go, “you are the single most passionate, driven, single-minded, exasperating, sweet, dorky, awkward, infuriating, wonderful person I have ever known, and I love you more than I ever thought I’d get to love anybody in my whole life.”

Bitty’s face goes a bit blurry, and Jack quickly swipes his free hand across his eyes.

“You never gave up on teaching me to skate through a check or conjugate French irregular verbs, and you made me not want to give up either. You’ve always put hockey before everything and everyone, but you put me before hockey. You always make sure I know we’re a team. You help me feel safe, and strong, and loved, and brave enough to take a stupid, crazy risk like gettin’ married, ’cause I know whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

He gulps and stuffs the cards into his trouser pocket and grabs Jack’s other hand like a drowning person grabbing a floaty thing.

“I promise to love you and take care of you and let you take care of me, and to always come in after you when you get stuck in your head, forever ’n’ ever amen.”

“I love you,” says Jack, low. And then he grins so wide his cheeks ache—because he can’t not—and goes off-script some more, possibly louder than he intended: “Bits, we’re getting _married_.”

There’s another ripple of laughter, and it only grows when Bitty grins back and stage-whispers, “I _know_!”

The chirps are going to be epic and endless.

Jack doesn’t care.

* * *

 

**+Bonus [2022] 6**

Maman les accueille avec sourires et larmes et grandes embrasses, peu importe les foules remplissant l’aéroport Trudeau.

« Maman! » Jack essaie de protester, mais comme il devrait savoir, elle est incapable de lui écouter lorsqu’un bébé soit présent. Ou bien un tout-petit.

« Say hi to your Grandma Alicia, sweetheart », dit Bitty.

Allie secoue la tête et se cache le visage dans l’épaule de son père.

« Don’t worry, Eric », Maman le rassure en souriant. « She’s allowed to be shy. »

Elle donne un coup d’œil à Jack, tout comme si elle disait tout haut, _Toi aussi t’étais timide à cet âge-là. Tu sauras à quoi faire attention, hein, mon fils?_

Au lieu de toute réponse, Jack s’occupe des nombreux bagages qu’il faut – d’après Bitty, en tout cas – lorsqu’on voyage avec un petit enfant.

 *

Maman et Papa ont tout préparé pour leur arrivée, y compris – reconnait Jack avec une certaine inquiétude – une chambre à Allie toute seule, laquelle ils ont orné de murs en jaune et vert pales et de dessins encarrés (un éléphant, une girafe, des petits lapins) et ont fourni de chaise berçante, de table à langer, de lit d’enfant.

Et dans ce lit-là, sur le bel édredon en motif de lapins et papillons, se repose …

« Oh! » dit Bitty. « Allie, look! Who’s this, now? Could this be a friend for Señor Bun? »

Allie se relève la tête pour mieux le regarder. « Peng? »

« Yes, sweetheart, it _is_ a penguin! » Bitty répond, ravi.

Allie sourit timidement. Sa petite main droite se détache finalement de la chemise de Bitty, et s’étend vers le jouet. « Peng! »

Bitty se tend pour le ramasser. Jack voit le moment précis où son mari reconnait le manchot en peluche comme jouet vieil et bien-aimé.

« Um. Comment s’appelle-t-il? » il demande. Il parle plus couramment qu’auparavant, mais son accent reste exécrable.

« C’t’une fille », répond Jack. « A s’appelle, euh. A s’appelle Madame Manchouin. »

« C’est un … une … That’s a pretty name, isn’t it, sweetheart? »

«  _Peng_ », insiste Allie.

« Oui, ma chouette, en anglais ça se dit _penguin_  », dit Jack, « et en français ça se dit _manchot_. »

Il sourit à sa fille, qui s’est attaché à Madame Manchouin tout comme l’adoré Señor Bun, et il ignore son énorme erreur tactique jusqu’à ce qu’il entend le son indéniable de son mari qui commence à rire.

« Jack », dit Bitty, et c’est déjà un chirp, « sweetheart, are you telling me that all the time you were chirping me for having a stuffed bunny named Señor Bun, you had a stuffed penguin named _Mrs Penguin?_ »

Bitty tombe en riant, Allie crie à haute voix _Peng! Peng!_ et Jack essaie tout juste de ne pas perdre sa dignité lorsque Maman les retrouve en montant l’escalier.

« Oh! » dit-elle. « You found Manchie! Eric, let me tell you about the time we almost lost her in Detroit… »

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 In Canada, [these delicious chocolaty things](http://www.londondrugs.com/nestle-smarties---45g/L8651192.html) are Smarties and [these things](https://www.thestar.com/life/food_wine/2014/10/31/sweetest_place_on_earth_a_tour_of_the_rockets_candy_factory.html) are Rockets. (Interestingly, my Google search for reference links revealed that both are manufactured in Toronto, where I live. I did not know this.) (Dammit, now I really want a box of Smarties.) For Berger, Cohen, and Marsh, see [here](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/98012749032). 
> 
> 2 For Ransom and milk bags, see [here](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/57707420968). Disclaimer: I have lived in Canada for 40 out of 43 years of my life, and I have never actually heard someone call someone else a milk bag. Then again, I have never played hockey, nor have I spent any significant amount of time in a hockey dressing room...
> 
> 3 Every bilingual person is different. I personally have almost always dreamed in English, except when I spent most of a summer living in an immersion situation in Trois-Rivières, taking classes in French, eating meals in French, reading French books, performing French music, doing Quebecois cultural activities in French … my one source of English was once-weekly conversations with my Anglophone boyfriend on the payphone in the student centre, plus writing him letters. I don’t dream in French anymore but I feel like I might if I were living in French again for a while.
> 
> 4 For Jack’s relationship with Camilla see [here](http://zimmbonis.tumblr.com/post/133444309334/hey-everyone-i-love-taking-notes-and-in-the). 
> 
> 5 This is the one that caused this whole fic to happen, and it is the fault of [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/works?fandom_id=1147379) and [MapleLeafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo/works?fandom_id=1147379) who, during an epic twitter discussion of tea-making and tea vocabulary, said I should write it. So … yeah.
> 
> 6 It has long been my headcanon (a) that baby Jack had a stuffed penguin that he carried around everywhere, and then reluctantly abandoned when he left home to play in the Q, because he knew the guys would chirp him unbearably; and (b) that said penguin had some kind of name meaning “penguin”. (Almost all my kid’s stuffed animals had names like that. She was a very literal-minded toddler.) Now, you might think that the French for penguin would be _pingouin_! But actually, it’s _manchot_. (Just to confuse matters further, a _pingouin_ is actually a seagull.) So like, smol Jack knows that Papa plays for the Penguins, and his sweater has a hockey-playing _penguin_ on it, but the [similar-looking birds at the Biodome](http://espacepourlavie.ca/blogue/les-manchots-du-biodome) are called _les manchots_? So obviously he makes up a name that includes both words. **Also** , Allie in this fic is the same Allie as in my fic "She Shoots, She Scores". She gets less shy as she grows up ^_^


End file.
